


Palindrome (a tail of gods & dogs)

by donteatmyfingerprints



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Crack, F/F, Fluff, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-10 13:25:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3291905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/donteatmyfingerprints/pseuds/donteatmyfingerprints
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Root had absolutely no choice (she repeats, no choice) but to give Shaw some really strong painkillers. The kind that dentists give their patients for their root canals (or where Shaw is a babbling child and Root is exasperated but charmed at the same time).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Palindrome (a tail of gods & dogs)

**Author's Note:**

> okay its like 7am where i live & i havent slept all night. and also im a little drunk so... its unedited and shit but im way too sleepy ill deal w it later after my nap

“Shaw.” No response.

 

“Shaw, Shaw, Shaw,” Root sing-songs, and pauses, letting her words hang in the air, mostly for her own personal dramatic effect.

 

“Sweetie, you know I adore you right? I mean, we both know that I’ve not been exactly _discreet_ when it comes to that front.” Root bats her eyelashes, giving a patronizing smile and dropping down to one knee to match the eye level of the shorter brunette crouched down in front of her. Shaw doesn’t even blink at Root’s confession.

 

(In fact, she’s been pretty bold for the last hour, ever since Shaw stopped noticing anything she’s been saying or doing, giving her a rare occasion to flirt as much as she likes.)

 

Root dips her head, trying to catch Shaw’s eye and fails. Although, it should be noted that the reason why she is unable to get Shaw’s attention, is none of their faults. Well, not really. Kind of. Kind of not really.

 

Alright, actually, it’s all Shaw’s fault, really. She’s not what anyone would call the most lenient doctor, and as a patient she’s the complete opposite of compliant.

 

Therefore, Root had absolutely no choice (she repeats, _no choice_ ) but to give Shaw some really strong painkillers. The kind that dentists give their patients for their root canals. The kind that makes Shaw a little, well, let’s say, a little less brusque and a little more charitable. Now that’s a thing Root never thought she’d say.

 

“Sweetie,” Root’s voice drips with both sugar and venom, in the way she knows Shaw would narrow her eyes in suspicion if she had her full mental faculties.

 

“Why not?” Shaw grounds out between a jaw that can’t decide if it should be clenching or going slack, and ends up alternating between the two. The effect is a sloppy drunken slur which makes Root bite her lip and forces her to concentrate really hard on not kissing Shaw in the middle of the street.

 

And even if Root is torn between exasperation and laughter (and even if she knows that Shaw will kill her tomorrow for having witnessed her in this state), she cannot help the little smile that involuntarily pulls her lips apart.

 

This isn’t the first time this has happened. This isn’t the second time either. Nor the third (they all seem to have adopted Harold’s soft spot for strays and misfits). This is, however, the first time that Shaw’s all drugged up, incoherent and completely unable to understand what Root’s saying. Root exhales, but the smile on her face belies the annoyed air she’s trying to project. They really should have taken the car. But _nooo_ , Shaw gives her the world’s most unconvincing argument ever about being completely fine and if she wasn’t so distracted by Shaw’s dazed expression which looks a lot like bedroom eyes- you know what? Irrelevant. Completely irrelevant now. They should have taken the car. Instead she finds herself trying to guide a stumbling ex-assassin on the street in the snow.

 

“Sweetie, put the dog down.” Root says firmly, trying to gently pry Shaw’s arms apart.

 

“No.”

 

“Shaw.”

 

“Root.” It was like talking to a child, goddamnit.

 

“Shaw, you can’t pick up every stray dog you see.”

 

“Firstly, I have never picked up a stray-”

 

“Only because I don’t let you-”

 

“Okay, just hear me out. Finch has a friend right? John. John’s his friend. And I-” Shaw pauses, strokes brown fur. The dog is a small creature, fluffy brown fur a little matted with the wet dew of the night and the melting snow on the pavement.

 

“You?” Root smirks, an eyebrow raised, encouraging Shaw to go on (Well, she’s allowed to have a little fun with this, right?).

 

“I have- You have a friend, too.”

 

“And, who exactly, is my _friend_?” Root gleams, feeling warmness under her clothes she knows isn’t attributed to the fabric’s ability to keep out the cold of New York City. Shaw rolls her eyes like Root’s the stupid one, and Shaw’s face is little red (from the cold, sure, whatever Shaw says).

 

“The Machine, duh.” Root’s smile becomes a full-fledged grin, and let’s that one slide. She tilts her head instead, waiting.

 

“Now Bear. Bear should have a friend too.” Root lets out a little laugh at this, expelling a small cloud of warm air. Winter is fading, but the end of the season is always nice out at night, cool and breezy. Shaw makes a face at Root, as though uncomfortable that Root is laughing.

 

“You’re very sweet for thinking of Bear,” Root says patiently, speaking slowly, not exactly sure if Shaw can even comprehend her words. “But I’m not sure Harold will want our little cave to turn into a pet store or a zoo.”

 

Root applies more strength, trying to get Shaw to put the dog down, but this proves much more of a challenge than she thought, because Shaw isn’t even paying her any attention. The dog in Shaw’s arms is happily licking away at her fingers, and Root scrunches up her nose, a little resentful. (She’s not jealous, of course not. It’s a dog.)

 

“Root, it’s cold out here. The dog will freeze.”

 

Shaw is a lot stronger than she thought Shaw would be, given her current state and injuries. Root grunts in the effort to tug on Shaw’s forearm.

 

“Shaw, c’mon, we need to get back. Every second out here is a risk we can’t afford.”

 

“And you say I’m the one who’s no fun.”

 

Root purses her lips.

 

“How do you know Bear won’t eat this little guy? It’s tiny.” Root doesn’t know why she’s arguing with, for all intents and purposes, a person with no logic at all right now.

 

“Root.” Shaw shakes her head and gives Root a patronizing smile, like Root’s being purposely obtuse. “Let’s be honest. You know nothing about dogs. I think _I_ would know, the kind of dogs, that Bear will eat. And this, isn’t one of those dogs.” She even has the gall to pat Root on the arm in a manner that indicates what she really thinks of Root’s poor understanding of the canine race. Root frowns.

 

“It’s a puppy, Root. No adult dogs eat puppies. It’s animal instinct.” Root bites back a comment on animal instinct, crouching down in the melting snow, their faces close together, pink flushes on both their cheeks. Shaw’s eyes are drowsy and Root chants in her head to get her mind out of the gutter. Oh yes, Root definitely bites back that comment on _animal instinct_.

 

“Animals don’t- you don’t know- they have like a different robot for bears and things.” Root snorts at this. She’s pretty sure Shaw meant to say Bear.

 

“O-kay, that’s- I have no idea what that means, at all.” Root looks up and checks their surroundings distractedly, her usual paranoia for Samaritan’s eyes setting in.

 

“The robot, Root. Your _friend_?” Shaw emphasizes, pulling on Root’s arm now, annoyed that her audience wasn’t listening. Root snaps her head back at Shaw, confused. Something nags at Root in the back of her mind.

 

“Animals, Root,” Shaw sighs dramatically, “they answer a different robot in the animal kingdom. They don’t follow the same laws of nature as people. Bears eat honey. Bear’s not going to eat a puppy, you idiot.”

 

“Shaw, Bear is a dog. It’s not a bear- oh, what am I even-”

 

Something is really nagging at Root at Shaw’s statement, she’s not exactly sure why. The thought disappears as she grins back at Shaw, realizing something else.

 

“Shaw,” Root says slowly, “are you using The… _Robot_ as another word for God?” Root teases, delighted. Shaw clumsily swats a palm at Root, which Root ducks. She assumes Shaw’s hand was headed for her head.

 

“Codewords, Root, geez. You can’t say the G word. The other Robot, remember?” Shaw motions toward the street cameras, giving Root a disapproving face. Root cannot wipe the silly smile off her face.

 

“Okay, Sameen, not that I don’t enjoy having a conversation with a crazy person, but we really got to go. Put the dog down.”

 

“Why,” Shaw says slowly and loudly, “are we outside anyway?”

 

“You wanted to bring Bear for a walk.”

 

“And where, is Bear?”

 

“I didn’t bring him.” Shaw gives her a scandalized look.

 

“Why not?”

 

“You didn’t notice for half an hour, Sam. Do you really think you’re in any state to walk Bear right now? If you lose Bear, Harold would have a field day,” Root responds soothingly, and Shaw narrows her eyes.

 

Root senses Shaw is reaching some sort of conclusion and allows her the time to get there, meds still fresh in her system and all. She stretches over, and against her better judgment, starts to stroke the small puppy that has taken to snuggling into Shaw’s coat. Drat, now she’s warming up to the puppy as well (also, she wants to be the one snuggling up into Shaw’s coat).

 

“Lies,” Shaw slurs, but somehow still manages to make her tone rather accusing, “You just wanted me to take you on a walk instead.”

 

Root flushes, but grins even brighter. She doesn’t know why she likes being called out on her shamelessness, but she really, really does. It’s got to be some sort of fetish, she thinks. She doesn’t mind all that much. She also likes the opportunity it gives her to come back with an explicitly brazen retort.

 

“I’d rather you take me on something else. Preferably something solid and stable and won’t break even if we-” Root suddenly pauses mid-sentence, something clicking into place in her mind. She stares at the puppy. Stares at Shaw. Gods for the human race. Gods for the animal kingdom. Behavourial patterns. Laws of nature. Laws. Codes. Robots, A.I.s. They respond to a different law, different codes. But they must respond to a higher calling, a higher voice that drives them to fulfill objectives. They follow a different set of rules. Rules of their own nature. Their ecosystem is different. She needs to speak with Harold.

 

Shaw doesn’t seem to notice Root’s epiphany, or register anything that Root said at all. But she does take advantage of the pause and lack of struggling against Root’s hold and stumbles to her feet, cradling the puppy in her arms. She vaguely walks off, and Root scrambles to her own feet a second later.

 

“Sameen,” Root starts to yell, but pauses again. Shaw turns back and gives her a defiant scowl. Her God sends her explicit instructions, and other times, other Gods send their own implicit signals, don’t they? She doesn’t know exactly why she’s doing this, and if she regrets it in the morning, she’ll just let John deal with the fallout. Besides, Harold and her have more important issues to discuss.

 

“You’re going in the wrong direction. The subway’s this way,” Root says instead, motioning for Shaw to come back. Shaw furrows her eyebrows suspiciously, slowly lumbering (that is the only appropriate way to describe the inelegant manner Shaw’s moving her limbs) back, growing even more suspicious when Root easily steps aside to let Shaw pass.

 

“We’re going to have to think of a name,” Root says finally to the puppy, and lets it gently gnaw on her fingers. When she looks up, Shaw is smiling triumphantly and this time, when her heart catches in her throat, Root impulsively leans in, her index finger looping through one of the belt loops on Shaw’s jeans, tugging her close.

 

Her lips find Shaw’s, and if both their lips are cold in the night air, the inside of their mouths are anything but. Root relishes in the warmth, the way Shaw always smells and tastes like fire. But it’s not like a roaring hearth, rather more like crackling embers. It’s not the heat of the sun, a little too glaring in the eyes. The burn Shaw gives her is mellow, like the subtle glow of the moon in the twilight. Shaw’s always more like gunpowder and magnesium, the rich undercurrent spicier than the searing impact of a direct bullet.

 

Root loses herself for a second, and makes an impatient noise, suddenly rather desperate to reach under layers of fabric. She unconsciously tries to press closer to Shaw, a hand reaching up to release the infernal hair-tie that Shaw always wears (can’t a girl enjoy scratching scalps and tangling fingers into a mess of hair in peace?) when she hears a small yip. They break the kiss to look down between them at wide puppy eyes (literally), mouths still half open, and pressed against one another. They breathe into each other for a second longer, and then Shaw is pushing her off, grumbling and heading toward the subway (the correct direction, this time).

 

Root grins, undaunted. She loops a hand around Shaw as she falls into step next to her, a thumb finding a belt loop on the other side of Shaw and relaxing into the hold, letting her hand dangle at Shaw’s hip. Shaw pays her no mind, the puppy occupying both her hands and her attention.

It’s a testament to how oblivious Shaw is right now that she’s not pushing Root aside in disgust, and Root vaguely wonders if she should take advantage of the situation and risk slipping the same hand into Shaw’s back pocket. As in, directly cupping Shaw’s ass. As in, she could even sneak in a few squeezes, if she’s lucky.

 

She could always just say that her hand was cold, even if she’s not sure how that would explain the squeezing.


End file.
